Curtain Fall
by Random Panic
Summary: Kurt has always hidden his true feelings; his insecurities, doubts, and guilt. He locked them away long ago in his "Pandora's Box." When an act of revenge endangers the people he cares for most, that box is pried open and he deteriorates. Later Puck/Kurt.


_A/N:__ Why hello there! After a lengthy, approximately-3-year, hiatus, I have finally resurrected this account. I totally owe my return to "Glee," since it's the fandom that actually inspired me to return to the writing world. :) At first, I told myself that I wouldn't ship anything, but Puck/Kurt enticed me and it was too mesmerizing to resist. This is my first story since my absence. :D _

_My memory is like that of a cabbage at times, therefore this story may be slightly AU due to conflicts with the "Glee" timeline. I didn't want to set it in Season 2 because the addition of Sam would have a big impact on this story but I also didn't want to set it in the summer. Therefore, this story begins the week after "Funk" and since I honestly don't remember the time gap between that episode and "Journey," for now it'll span for 6 weeks with Regionals taking place during the 7__th __week. School will end a week after the competition. This is this fiction's temporary timeline- temporary because I'm notorious for having indecisive tendencies._

_I may boost the rating up later on if I feel that it's necessary. As a precautionary, there will be serious angsting in this fic, so I ask that you please be aware of that. Don't let it turn you off, though! _

_This fic will be written in Kurt's POV because I wanted to write a story which showed a more intimate emotional sense and, as bothersome as it can get, I thought that my goal would be best achieved if the characters were narrating for themselves. Despite some exceptions, most chapters will utilize past tense, meaning that these events have already happened. The reason for that will be revealed at the end. Sadly, Puck won't become a vital figure for several chapters (I'm just itching to write him!) But once he appears I may do alternating chapters from Kurt's POV to his. I suffer from severe Accuracy OCD and take full responsibility for my mistakes and any OOCness pertaining to its voice and content, although the voicing is intended to be on the thoughtful/depressed side. To reap full benefit, it's best read when you have a little, serious, brooding, Chris Colfer-as-Kurt voice narrating in your head. :)_

_I apologize for this obnoxiously long Author's Note. Without further ado,- minus the disclaimer and warning- I hope you all enjoy this chapter. :) May the force of the fanfiction be with you~_

**Warnings for this Chapter:** Slurring and Homophobic Slurs, Cruel Torture/Bullying Antics, Kurt!Whump

**Disclaimer:** I am in no way, shape or form associated with the production of "Glee" and it's creators. If I did... Let's not go there...

* * *

**_Curtain Fall~_**

_**Exordium & Chapter One: Fight**_

* * *

I know who I am.

I've known for a long time and there is no need to deny that.

On the contrary, knowing is just the first step to acceptance, and acceptance, sadly, is just one possible outcome.

I was fortunate enough to gain my own father's acceptance, for I know that that itself is a rare occurrence, no matter the reason. Take Quinn's case, for instance. During one sinful night of drunken rendezvous, she'd made an unconscious mistake that swiped her V-Card in exchange for a fetus. Her parents then chose to reject her and tossed her on the street upon learning that the purity of their celibatic baby girl had been soiled, supposedly by her kindred boyfriend but instead secretly by a womanizing meathead. As if _that_ didn't add onto the burden of suffering her own God-given consequence.

Then again, Quinn's rejection had stemmed from her parents' disbelief and inability to accept that their daughter had made a mistake. Although my sexuality is most definitely not a mistake, my dad could have very well treated it as one.

Luckily, he didn't.

Naturally, not everyone is as keen on the idea of a "flaming homosexual" gracing them with their presence, even for a mere passing glance. Not everyone can accept the fact that one dares to be different simply because it is who they are, even when it's that person's decision and doesn't concern the peanut gallery. Sadly, I'm convinced that these close-minded Neanderthals make up approximately ¾ of Lima's population. Hell, that estimate would probably be true for the whole of Ohio.

For years I've dealt with it: The dirty looks, the verbal and physical harassment, and the humiliation- antics that try to provoke my judgment. You name it and there's a great possibility that I've endured it. Though it was the path that I had chosen, I admit that I probably wouldn't have tolerated it for as long as I have if my father's choice had differed. My love for him and that decision- his _support_- were my motivation to keep moving; to never allow anyone to interfere and demote me with their passionate hate. It was my pillar and without it, Heaven knows if I would've made it this far…

It's funny; I've honestly thought that I'd surpassed this a long time ago.

After my admittedly drastic and pathetic identity crisis, which resulted in nothing but a flannel-clad me and a slight, but acquired phobia of root beer-flavored lip gloss, I've found that I'm proud of who I am and wouldn't fare well as anyone other than myself. Or so I thought.

Even so, I guess I never really was as "okay" as I seemed, nonetheless had gained full acceptance from the person whom was most important:

Myself.

For most of my life, lying about my well-being has been a common practice. My father has always harbored rather emotional and overprotective tendencies, reacting on his heart as opposed to his mind, and the death of my mother had only worsened these feelings. Aside from my own fear and difficulty to accept my sexuality, I knew that knowledge of it would do nothing but add on to his trouble; the first reason as to why I was so persistently intent on hiding it from him. For 15 years I'd done so, for I felt as though it was my obligation to prevent him from more grief. In brutal honesty, I valued his opinion most and was terrified, thinking that he was going to disown me upon learning about it. I imagined that he'd pine for a normal son; an epitome of "masculine," that of which I certainly am not, to replace a disappointment like me- a freak who would bring our family nothing but ridicule. Sadly, having a homosexual son in God-forsaken Lima could be synonymous to hell on Earth. Accepting me for who I am would be his VIP-Pass to instant emotional hurt, humiliation, and loathing, all for my sake. This, I assume, is why his answer ultimately shocked _and_ relieved me.

However, even with the comfort of knowing that my dad is content with who I am, I continued my pretense in order to mask the other troubles that I had been facing, more specifically my daily turmoil at school. He needn't know the rest of the trouble I've been going through: The darker side of our decision. My father would surely act on blind rage upon discovering the bigotry; quick to overreact and take extreme measures. If the hate calls had made him furious, what more if he had known about the physical abuse?

Having others fret over my personal troubles would leave nothing but additional hassle on both them and me. Everyone has their own conflicts and obstacles to overcome, like Artie with his disability and Quinn with her child; therefore it's highly unnecessary and unfair to trouble them with my own. Not to mention that their concern would make me feel completely needy, fragile, and a bit selfish; shades of me which I absolutely abhor. I needed to be strong for everyone, and because of that I've always made it clear that I wasn't in need of any help or consoling or any of that crap because there was nothing in this world that I couldn't handle on my own.

My life is fabricated with lies; faux reassurances that there needn't be any worry concerning me. It was necessary, for the sake of others' sanity and at times, even for my own. I didn't realize that because of it I had been breaking. Gradually the pieces fell; fragments chipped off, exposing my true interior. Yet even so, I wouldn't stop. There was no way that I would, especially with the enemy which I lied about, even to myself.

The enemy which trumped all the rest…

To be completely honest, my self-esteem has never been entirely "100%." Actually in my case, 50% comes across as a more reasonable estimate.

I never was fully at ease with myself, and that quality is something that I've always despised. There has always been this feeling- a petulant feeling of guilt and detestation towards myself and my sins, particularly the "Hudson Hook-Up" ordeal- that has lingered within me; a feeling that I just couldn't rid. It is the inner demon that I've held a battle against for years yet was too genuinely afraid of to take action. I'd dismissed it as a weakness; something that was completely unnecessary and would do nothing more but add on to the problems. It served as an unwelcomed reminder of my wrongs and doubts, and I knew that fully acknowledging it would very well be the death of me.

Therefore, I shied away from the pain.

The lies continued. They were the bricks which formed the tall and menacing barrier around my true emotions, sealing them from the outside world. In addition, I had locked my demon, the unforgiving monster that thrashes constantly within me, in the most miniscule of boxes and stowed it away in the depths of my mind- my "Pandora's Box," so to speak. Never would my wall crumble and that box be opened. No. Both were created with the purpose of serving for life.

Years of plastered smiles and faux pride.

I suppose that's how I convinced myself, as well as those around me, that I was fine. The façade had become habitual; performed so often that one would identify me by its mannerisms. But hell, no one would know what I've been keeping. No one _could_ know. Even when things had escalated to its absolute worst, I'd solemnly kept my vow to shut them out.

It was foolish of me to sincerely believe that karma wouldn't return to give me a well-deserved bitchslap.

* * *

I ran tantivy with no specific destination in mind. They were after me again, the manic beasts.

They'd decided to follow through with their promise of returning with more allies, only this time I was alone and, unsurprisingly, outnumbered. In hindsight, this extension was probably avoidable, if only my mouth hadn't been running as it had. I recall making some snide remark targeted towards their ringleader, something vaguely along the lines of him wasting his sex time with Azimio just to pursue me. Everything pretty much went to the dogs after that.

My Marc Jacob's messenger bag thumped violently against my thigh with every jostling movement, emitting muffled sounds which blended with the reckless taps of my shoes smacking asphalt. In an effort to make a hasty diversion, I made my way from the partially vacant McKinley parking lot and into the Boys' Locker Room, whose forgotten door was left ajar.

Terrible mistake on my part.

"Was_sup_', Freak!" Karofsky lunged before me, stopping me dead in my tracks. The harsh boom of his voice echoed throughout the empty hall as several figures emerged alongside of him, a lone light flickering in the furthest corner and looking as though it had been stolen from a cliché horror movie. There was a loud slam, the outdoor glow disappearing abruptly with it and enveloping us in utter darkness. I was heaved powerfully and soon found myself roughly pinned against the wall; a strong hand gripping just below both wrists.

"With that comment back there, you're just askin' for a good ass kicking, Hummel," There was a slight slur to his words, conclusively from the confidential consumption of alcohol. The sports department was notorious for their underage drinking sessions during school hours- which were reportedly held in the long-abandoned hallway on the third-floor. Sweet Madonna, they were_ tipsy_.

My eyes adjusted to the lighting and I found myself surrounded; a sea of jocks confining us between themselves and the wall. (Well, that was a mild exaggeration. It really was just three nameless morons plus Azimio backing up their 'papa bear'. Their mammoth statures simply gave the illusion that there were more.)

"Didn't think that we'd come around and wait for you here, ain't that right, Faggot?"

Squirming, I opened my mouth to yell but snapped it shut upon noticing the expectant flicker in his eyes. Perhaps it was prideful of me, but I was sick and tired of giving them what they wanted. Resistance was futile either way; the result was likely to remain the same regardless of my retorts. I refused to respond, which only prompted his grip to tighten.

Determined to provoke me, he taunted; eyes shifty, "You're just so predictable."

No answer.

"What happened to that sharp tongue of yours, Fudgepacker? Wear it out from suckin' it off with your _boyfriend_?" The word 'boyfriend' was emphasized maliciously; making it sound as though it was one of the most heinous discriminations on the planet. He released his grip on my left arm to speedily return Azimio's high-five, then grabbed it once more as though the action had never occurred.

Impatience was clearly getting to him, his mouth downturned into an ugly scowl, "Answer me, God damn it!"

No response.

He added more pressure. The ragged edges of his fingernails pierced my skin from the force; warm, sticky, trails of scarlet began to trickle down my forearm. He was furious then, yet I refused to speak, instead looking blankly into his eyes and trying my absolute best to mask my terror through a stoic expression. There was no way I was going to give him what he wanted. No; not this time.

"Friggin' Bitch-"

My vision blurred as his fist collided with my face. Before I could comprehend the action, I was slammed, once again, against the wall.

"You've got some fucking nerve, Hummel!"

Two kicks to the stomach followed his commentary. The blows were harsh, spiking sharp jolts of pain shooting up my ribcage. The air was knocked out of me and I was left coughing and wheezing on the floor.

"I'm disappointed in you, Princess. We thought that you were smarter than this," He did a mocking pout which made him look creepily awkward, even in such dim lighting.

"That's right, bow down," He was having a hay day with mocking me in my pained stance, adding a kick to the side as a distasteful afterthought. Their laughter was maniac, eerie bellowing howls derived from deep within the baboons' chests.

More kicking ensued.

My body ached with each careless blow, breathless whimpers forcibly escaping my lips. I took the time to briefly mourn my new Giorgio Armani tee which would, without a doubt, be wrinkled and drenched with bodily fluid in negative-10 minutes. Ruthless bastards.

"So what do you say, guys? Why don't we give this cocksucker what he deserves?" Satisfied with the final hit, he chuckled behind a devilish grin as a commotion of vague approvals and profanities ran its course. I braced myself for what was yet to come-

"Grab him."

I was man-handled and shoved against the off-white ceramic once more, this time by two of Karofsky's henchmen, and was suspended above ground with two muscular arms paralyzing me; my satchel swaying loosely on my right shoulder. I fought to get free, writhing recklessly within the grasp of my captors.

"Don't worry, Fairy, we'll try not to ruin your wings," The leader shot his Cheshire smile, laying an unwelcome hand uncomfortably on my left shoulder while the bottom of his sneaker pressed firmly onto my crotch. I was filled to the brim with alarm upon picking up his sickening hints.

"Azimio, would you do the honors?"

With a smirk, Karofsky's right-hand brute came over and began to fumble with my belt, its buckle occasionally clinking against the prong. I thrashed blindly, limbs flying, praying that I could at least kick the fool away.

"Geez, Hummel, stay fucking still!" The agitation was clear in his command.

It was no use; he'd undone my belt and moved on to my red skinny jeans, unabashedly pulling them down. For a moment I wondered if I'd been drawn by fate to wear that particular color on that very day. Oh, the irony.

The subtle draft caressed my bare skin, mocking my doomed self with its bite. I felt limp as all blood rushed immediately to my face. It was an old trick, yet the level of embarrassment was all the same.

Upon completing the deed, Azimio stepped back to chest-bump Karofsky. After, he turned back towards me, cracking his knuckles. I hadn't realized that I was sweating until I felt something fluid slide off of my chin. Karofsky was gleeful.

"Chillax, we've played this game before," It was likely that my pupils dilated; face livid while my mind flashed back to the blurred torture scenes of before, the anamnesis reminiscent of a horror film. "If I remember correctly, it's your _favorite_."

I gulped.

"Markers out!"

The remaining pair of my assailants complied, whipping out an achromatic rainbow of Sharpies from their back pockets. I resumed my wriggling, desperately craving for freedom as Karofsky approached first, wielding a jet black pen. At that moment, I wouldn't have been shocked if the circulation in my arms had been abruptly cut off.

"For the love of God, hold still!" He barked, stooped before my legs; my sways thwarting his attempts to graffiti my limbs.

I ignored him and swung, trying to aim a poor kick to his face- an action difficult to perform considering that my pants were just-so-conveniently stuck at my ankles. To my amazement, a miracle took place and the end of my loosened belt miraculously managed to whip him. Hum hallelujah.

"Shit!" He yelped. A hand flew to his eyes and the Sharpie fell with an unsatisfying 'click'. My body- particularly my head- was swung hard into the wall behind, several times. After the third hit, the blows ceased and I was settled back into the previous position, dangling over the floor. The room was spinning; everything distorted into an obscure, topsy-turvy, doubled mass. I felt like a drunken Alice in a not-so-wonderful and incredibly-nauseating Wonderland.

I was flipped-over to face the tiled barrier, which was soon obstructed by grayish white. A tattered dishrag acted as a way-too-tight makeshift blindfold and constricted my eyes, damning them shut, as well as forcefully pinned back my ears. I was robbed of my satchel and it was thrown, hitting the wall with a "thwack," the absent load leaving me feeling flimsier than before.

"We weren't going to go this far, Hummel, but now you're gonna fucking get it!"

I felt myself tossed violently in every direction- tripping over my designer jeans- and then thrust onto the linoleum floor. My mind spun in a pinwheel-esque fashion, my body receiving excruciating hits from all around. I couldn't think. I tried to scream, with faint hope that there may be just one blissfully unaware person wandering about the gym after-hours who could hear my cries, before my mouth was stuffed with- what was this, _sweat-socks_? I spat them out, choking on the lint; the dreaded saliferous flavor lap-dancing on my tongue.

It was then that I was brought up, hands holding a death-grip on my upper arms while slamming my back against the wall; feet, once again, just brushing the ground. I was wheezing; scared out of my wits and half-expecting to break out into hyperventilation.

The first touch was electrifying: The moist, cold, tip of Sharpie catching me by surprise before swiftly bolting across my bare skin, spawning slur-after-slur in permanent ink. I'd despised this the first time, the exposure and vulnerability sending me on the verge of tears. However, the previous time it was a mere two words; minimal yet infested with disdain. This time the scribbling was furious. The inking began at my calves and worked its way up before halting just below the hem of my boxers. There was no space left unwritten, none that hadn't been traced over and kissed by the seductive point of pen.

Just when I thought that things couldn't worsen, I felt myself flipped over once again; my chest jammed against and practically molesting the tile when I felt a tug on my underwear. I was overwhelmed; trying hard to squirm and yelp until my head was smashed forward. A wet spot was forming on the blindfold despite my attempts to hold back. It was becoming far too much. These guys were pure _sadists_.

With a pull I was stripped of my boxers, my complete bottom half exposed for all to see. I felt myself pale before I was greeted again by the icy tip of the marker, this time on sensitive skin. It seemed that my legs just weren't enough.

A wash of relief crashed over me once the pen had lifted…

At least until it was substituted for an incredible pain.

I screamed.

"Give it up, fudgepacker. Your buddies from Homo Explosion ain't here to save you now. _Nobody_ is."

It was a severe spanking, with a leather belt, I presume. My tears rolled down beneath the rag, failing to be absorbed by the material. With every hit, the friction had my skin blistering even more than the previous, the burning sensation too hot to handle and forcing a gasp each time.

Over what felt like eternity, the hits stopped suddenly- much too quickly. The pounding in my ears muted all other sound, my cries quiet while mentally pleading to whatever god that the torment would just end. My thoughts weren't straight, for the love of Prada, I couldn't even think. I anticipated the worst with hands balled into immensely tight fists, temperate liquid oozing from my palms. I was utterly frightened, dreading their next move.

I was flipped, face ripped away from the grimy tile. My shirt was lifted, chest met with the fine brush that was back for just one more taste. God, I had never felt so dirty in my life; so absolutely _filthy_.

The writing then halted, my crinkled tee falling back into place. Silence, save for my low sobs and pants, infested the room once more. With blood drumming, I tried to restrict my tears when the blindfold was torn from my head, my audibility hurtfully suppressed. Without the cloth, the hyenas' cackles exploded, popping in my ears like crackling corn. I focused on the floor, wanting nothing more but to fucking _leave_.

"You know," Karofsky began; head tilted and lips brushing slightly against my ear, the slightest hint of contact setting off alarm signals in my head.

"It wouldn't be like this if you were like _us_," He purred. I was mortified; he going on to illustrate the luxuries of being at the top of the food chain.

"No dumpster dives, slushiecides, pee balloons, or any of _this_…" A hand made a gesture towards the rest of his wolf pack- unsettling bouts of mischievous laughter coming from every member, markers scattered about in each fist. Despite my raucous movements, Karofsky's goons maintained a firm grip on me, but glared with annoyance.

"You say that it's so _good_ to be different. That it's '_the best part about_' you," He let out a wholesome chortle before gesturing towards my bottom half, his laughter raised by a pitch, "You see: _this_ is what you get for being different." Without hesitation he leaned in, upper lip curled to whisper-

"Wouldn't it be so much easier to be normal?"

_Normal._

It stung. More so than it naturally would.

Although it had become a rhetorical question and an uncreative insult, those words spat like acid. It was that question, that _word_, which caught me. My blood ran cold and I found myself motionless, stilled and numb in the presence and hold of my tormentors, taking an interest in the ground.

"Who…W-Who in this fucking _hell_ told you that I could ever be like you?" I said in my trance, trembling.

"Hell, who the fuck would even _want_ to be like _you, _of all people?" I lashed out, coming to my senses. They were obviously dropped several times during childhood. It was the utmost egoistic of them to say such and actually mean it.

"For your information, I'm different because it's who I _am_! Heaven help you if they would! God, you make it sound as if I can _actually_ change that about myself!" I scoffed. "For me, it's either live your life miserably by hiding what makes 'you' you or accept it and move on with your life. Jesus Christ, but of course _you_ wouldn't _care_ to understand that," I swallowed thickly, vision clouded by magma.

"Why can't you just get _over_ it? Grow up _a lot_, will you? It'll do you wonders." I grew quieter, embracing malice, choking a bit on my venomous words. "Ignoramuses like you are the reason why we hate ourselves." The weight on my chest grew heavier with each passing second, anchoring me. It was my cumbersome cross to carry.

"I mean, seriously! What did we ever do to you?" I shouted, really hoping for a legitimate answer. "Honestly, did I actually _choose_ to prefer men? Of course not! Is it possible for you to _get_ any shallower?"

"Heck, i-if I had the _chance_. Just one measly_ chance_ to be _normal_…" My voice wavered, drifting on its own.

"I would've done so a long time ago!"

By that time I was fuming and held no more control over my tear glands, the salty solution beginning to cascade freely down my cheeks. I was a river whose dam had been broken.

"If I could be normal, would I have tolerated the beating, the insults, and the humiliation?" I was seething with rage. "What about the endless pain or loathing I've been subjected to? Who in the right _mind_ would want to put up with _that_?"

Even through my tears I could see it in their eyes; the repulsive satisfaction and _pleasure_. They were undoubtedly savoring my breakdown, enjoying their "reward" for succeeding, once again, in making the "resident fag" cry.

"Your fucking ignorance makes me _sick_!"

"Well you know what they say, Faggot," Karofsky's hideous face was a well 5 inches before my own. His breath reeked of alcohol and onions, a terribly intoxicating combination. I scrunched my nose in disgust and turned my head to the side. For the love of Beyoncé that man needed a breath mint.

"Ignorance is bliss."

Without any further thought, I successfully spat in his face. I couldn't take it anymore; the nerves and invasion of personal space had finally gotten to me, and, hell, that was all I could do.

"Feisty," He snarled, staggering backward and- much to my benefit and confusion- unexpectedly tripped on Azimio's foot: courtesy of his temporary visual impairment. The two fell rather comically and ended with Karofsky's ass landing flat on his partner's face.

_Was this seriously for real?_ My eyes widened with disbelief before I stifled a small giggle, figuratively kicking myself at the same time. If I'd known that something as simple as saliva could trigger such a dramatic response, imagine how many ensembles I could've salvaged from slushy combat, nonetheless plethora of cash I could have saved instead of spending on cover-up to conceal my bruises!

In my favor, the two henchmen were stupid enough to withdraw their grasp and join their comrade in aiding their fallen leaders. With no time to spare, I pulled my underwear up, wincing, and grabbed my pants from the floor, buttoning them hastily and keeping my eyes glued to the display in front of me all the while. Shifting my gaze, I yanked the leather strap of my satchel, slung it over my shoulder so it crossed my chest, and began to sidestep toward the exit; back against the unsanitary wall and hoping not to make a scene. My focus on the door was so strong that I jumped at the sudden roar-

"You little _asshole_!"

I ducked as a punch was shot towards me, exposing an area of filthy, worn-out, tile. The attack backfired and Karofsky's fist smashed violently into the surface above, a terrible crunching sound adding emphasis on the impact of the collision. He howled, falling to his knees while cradling his mangled hand. It had turned a sickening purplish color, glistening crimson beginning to seep visibly amongst the bruising.

Shit.

If looks could kill, my body would have been maimed at that instant; my disassembled body parts then left to rot in a puddle of grape "Big Quench" while my decapitated head abandoned, bobbing up and down in a public toilet.

"Get him, damn it!"

Heeding his orders, Azimio advanced toward me, the remaining savages trailing behind. If I were to absquatulate, they would, without a doubt, come after me outside. Brushing off the sweltering pains, I quickly changed my route and raced for the gym doors, rhythmically chanting the phrase "please be open" in my head.

I sprinted down the hall past the pews of fixed benches. The lockers' brilliant rust hues were first tainted in the fine line between gray and jet black, and then shone maroon when nearing the main area; subtle Decorator's White filtering through sparse glass windows. In the midst of the adrenaline rush, I looked back to see their faces- flushed pink and eyes beady- which had become illuminated as I neared the exit; before it, the broken light-source hovering unevenly above the space like a puppet with loose strings, blinking lazily like a firefly. I was almost there-

I turned my head and was alarmed to find a player smirking before me. He had a stocky build; his stout legs and brawny arms spread out in a goalie stance, daring me to flee. I stopped; eyes darting for an escape, aware of the others that were beginning to close in on me.

"Boo!" Stocky-Build's baritone voice cut through the air; upper body abruptly pushed forward to fake an approach. I flinched, causing his teammates to chuckle.

"Now!"

All at once they lunged at me, bodies overlapping in a messy dog-pile with mine at the very bottom; the combined weight bone-crushing. I couldn't breathe. For Heaven's sake, I couldn't _breathe_. Arms were shot everywhere in attempts to condemn me to that spot. I squirmed, fighting off strong grips while fishing for a way out with my right hand, which seemed to smear blood on whatever it touched. Finally, I found an outlet and was able to drag myself out. I emerged, coughing for air.

"He's out, damn it, he's _out_!"

There was no time to recover.

I made it to the door and clasped onto the handle, dried blood sticking to cool metal as I shook it repeatedly. It was locked. I banged on the exterior, screaming my lungs out like no tomorrow.

Great. Not even the janitor was around.

A weight pressed onto my back and my chest thrust forward into the board. I writhed when I was grabbed, channeling a worm as my captor brought me away from the exit. His arms were wrapped tightly around my waist, constricting me while he sniggered; my squirms caused him to wobble back and forth unsteadily. He was arguably the most inebriated of the bunch.

"Hee-haw! Ride 'em, Cowboy Express!" Awkward jubilance radiated off of him as the thunder of feet became louder.

Of course. He was significantly the most out-of-it.

Curling my legs, I focused my energy and pushed backward, releasing me from the clutches of the drunkie and sending him falling clumsily onto the floor: his head smashing against the horizontal edge of a pew. As simple as that, he was knocked out.

Gratefully, I welcomed the air and took a step back- when I was taken again by Azimio and another caveman. I was transferred beneath the busted light which dangled by its faulty wiring. Stocky-Build was perched atop a bench, once more in his trying stance and looking like a starving puma ready to pounce.

"Hold 'im steady, Thompson, I'm tryin' to get a hit," I could hardly see. Azimio was sloppily shielding my eyes with his meaty hands while the other, 'Thompson', held my legs so I would refrain from kicking.

A battle cry sliced the air.

There was a snap followed by a crash and I was kissing the floor; the deadweight of a slack body burdening my shoulders. I rolled easily out of limp arms and stood up, fizzing noises buzzing about. The room was now painted in dull shades, the windows' neutral glow the only remaining light source.

Stocky-Build had apparently underestimated the height of his jump and caught onto the busted panel. His weight must have been enough to tear the wires from the ceiling, causing it to fall downward and thus trapping his buddies beneath the light.

Shockingly, all three were unconscious. Lady Luck really had been on my side that day.

My mouth made the only sounds, the inhales and exhales ample. I examined the scene: They'd all been taken out, one sprawled against the benches while the other three unmoving, out cold where the panel had fallen. I needed to escape before they awoken; the tension still high.

Karofsky was nowhere to be found.

"Hey, Gay-Train!"

I shifted just in time to miss his swing and took a look at him. Veins pulsated on his forehead, scarlet face enraged while his left fist curled around a wooden baseball bat.

Avoiding him, I bolted down the corridor, seeking the back door: my ticket to freedom. It was well within reach-

Until I lost my footing.

The clunk of the baseball bat reverberated and my back struck against a detached locker that was isolated from the rest, causing it to sway back a bit. The bastard's good hand gripped around my throat and pinned me against the metal, his other arm smothering my lips. The sharp, uneven edges drilled through the thin fabric of my shirt and into my skin. He had undoubtedly chosen the dilapidated one with the crumpled door.

"You're such a little fucker, y'know that?"

I squeezed my eyelids shut so tight that random colors morphed rapidly before black. He was choking me _and_ covering my mouth. Without a doubt, I was going to die.

"We tried to teach you a lesson, tried to help your girly ass out," He hissed. Some sick lesson this is.

"There is no way in fucking hell that you were able to take my boys out! No fucking _way_!"

To be honest, _I_ didn't even know how I did it. Their lack of intelligence and liquor were the only logical cause.

"But it doesn't matter whether or not you did," He smirked. I couldn't move; my panic increasing tenfold as the sense of defeat crept in.

"There is no God damn way that you're getting away with this!"

He was an active volcano, his grip getting tighter by the minute. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. I chomped down on his arm, hard enough to break the skin. He withdrew both arms, leaving me gasping on the ground. The acrid tang of fool's blood made me want to gag myself until there was visceral harm.

"You Son of a Bitch!"

I opened my eyes in time to see him charging toward me. I scooted over just in the nick of time. He plowed straight into the decrepit steel surface with a resounding cross between a "bang" and a "crunch." The storage rattled and fell forward from the tremendous force of impact, crushing Karofsky's disoriented self beneath its industrial structure. I gawked.

This was all too surreal.

During his paralyzed state, I snapped out of it and made my escape. Several exasperated moans and a significant screech could be overheard as I crawled my way to the exit-

"Mark my words, Hummel!" I briefly turned to see Karofsky's battered form facing in my direction. His face was entirely scarlet with fury; sweat drenching his unattractive face.

"_Soon, you're gonna fucking wish that you'd never walked this God damned Earth!"_

Fear roared like a tidal wave. Throughout the ephemeral glance, my eyes were deadlocked on his own. His oculus depicted such malice and repulsion… It matched perfectly with his biting and humorless tone.

He was dead serious.

The sense of urgency was indescribable. It didn't matter where I ended up, just as long as it was away from _here_. Twisting away, I pried the exit door open. It felt like I'd been trapped in the darkness for months- not to mention that the poor lighting supported the illusion that the battle had taken place in the evening- so I was pleasantly surprised when an intense burst of white came pouring through the opening. Lugging myself out, I quickly slammed the door and locked it from the outside, hoping that it would ensure any lack of- highly unlikely- pursuit.

My hands were all over the door; one grasping the doorknob tight enough so that the bloodied knuckles paled a ghastly white while the other fumbled clumsily on its body. I was desperate for support. Mustering my strength, I gradually brought myself upward, leaning against the worn wooded surface.

Despite the constant aches, I was able to stand. All the while, the words echoed like a broken record, sending my mind reeling. I was damned to forget them.

Once up I ran.

I cleared my mind of all negativity, ignoring the exhaustion and constant hurt that my body wailed from. I wanted nothing more but to get away as soon as possible; away from the jocks, away from the pain, away from the fear, and away from the devil whispering in my head-

Home was the only thing on my mind.

* * *

_A/N: Phew! That was a frightening amount of text. Yes, I'm guilty of having way more fun than I'd initially thought I would with the "bagging-on-Kurt" scene and got carried away with the bullying tactics. Oh well~_

_I'll try to get around to weekly updates, but judging by the size of these chapters and how I might get bagged down with schoolwork, there's no promises. _

_Special thanks to my chicas, **SK** and **Kat**, for being my "Proof Patrol!" Endless love to you two!_

_Thanks so much for taking the time to read! Feedback is most appreciated and lovely~ Don't be afraid to drop a review if you have the time. :)_

_With love, xxChris_


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